Her Ten Minutes
Her ten minutes sneak
Through the hole of an iron needle
In the hand of a cobbler,
Who sits like a spider
At a nook of the city.
She is broken on her shoes ;
‘Wait’, his word stumbles over rum stink.
Passers by give her tribute
With their glances ; and the beauty
Blushes under the hot sun.
She stoops her proud head ,
Which sways intermittently
Towards the east and the west ,
To check if some acquaintance
Is dropping a belittling eye.
For Miss Seena is rich and noble ,
But with a little money.
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